Angel Was A Centerfold
by silver ruffian
Summary: Warning – pure crack ahead. This is a partial record of audio and avi clips from the 2009 Touch of Heaven photoshoot with Dean Winchester and the Archangel Michael.


_**A/N:**_ I saw _This Is It (about Michael Jackson)_ a week ago, and this story came out today. Go figure. The views and opinions expressed belong to Dean Winchester and the Archangel Michael. Story title taken from the J. Geils oldie but goodie, _Angel Was A Centerfold._ Other lyrics from _Steam_, by Peter Gabriel, and yeah, I am shocked at what the lyrics for _Flower_ (by Moby) really are. I looked at several different websites and finally settled on this.

_**Summary:**_ Warning – pure crack ahead. This is a partial record of audio and avi clips from the 2009 _Touch of Heaven_ photoshoot with Dean Winchester and the Archangel Michael.

And here we have the obligatory _**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own _Supernatural_ or _Dogma_. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit. There, I've said it and I feel better for it, too.

* * *

"Uh, Mike?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Uh, I don't mean to pry but I gotta ask this…"

"Ask away, junior."

"Where the hell were you before I said yes? I mean, were you in some crappy green room like the one Zachariah stuck me in that time?"

"Nope. I dunno 'bout you, but I like to get out and do stuff. I was in California."

"California?"

"Yep. La La Land."

"Oh."

"I had work to do."

"Work? Like what?"

"Not what. _Who._ Robert Downey Jr, for one."

"You turned him around?"

"Yep. Got Britney back on track. And Whitney Houston, too."

"Damn…"

"Hey, I'm patient and merciful, dude. Got more experience with humans than my brothers and sisters do."

"You got any regrets?"

"Yep. Megan Fox."

"I was talking about you and your family."

"Nahh. Lucifer's my brother and I love 'em, but he's a prissy little jerk. Can't change that. Gabriel couldn't live as an angel so he pretended he was a trickster. Pathetic. I hear Coyote kicked his ass for one hundred days. Payback is a right royal bitch. I got regrets, folks I couldn't help onto their chosen path."

"Who?"

"Like I said: Megan Fox."

"You mean the chick who was in 'Transformers'?"

"Yep. I tried to convince her she should play Wonder Woman. She wouldn't listen to me. Did _Jennifer's Body_ instead. I failed, Dean. I failed big-time."

"Dude, I feel your pain."

(Sniffs noisily) "I knew you would."

* * *

Later:

"Oh, hi, Anna. Didn't think you'd show up for the photoshoot."

"Michael? I'm still not talking to you."

(Sound of loud, hard slap)

"Oww! What the hell did you do that for?"

"Dean? Dean, is that _you_?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, babe, I'm so sorry. You okay?"

"Do I _look _okay?"

"Well, actually, _yeah._ That black suit really looks good on you."

"Oh, thanks. You doin' okay?"

"Well, yeah. Are _you_?"

"Yeah. Why _shouldn't_ I be?"

"We had a betting pool. Bet was Michael would burn you up completely. I had three weeks."

"WHAT?!?"

(Sound of body hitting the floor)

_Mike, why the hell did you stun her like that?_

_She's got a big damn mouth._

_Betting pool, huh?_

_It's been over a month, kid. Haven't burned you up yet. Ain't gonna happen._

_

* * *

_The set is a vast, light blue space, more like something you'd see on a behind the scenes feature on a Spielberg or James Cameron movie. Off camera there's a large crowd of angels, seraphim and cherubim, archangels and their vessels. The cherubim don't look like those little fat flying babies with wings. They're male and female, tall and lean. Some of them have four wings. Some of the seraphim have six. Everybody is dressed in casual clothes, fashionably faded blue jeans, tee shirts and Dockers.

Metatron is tall and thin. He does look like Alan Rickman in _Dogma_, and rumor has it that he persecuted Kevin Smith for a time because of that. There was some unpleasantness about boils and a plague of locusts.

Metatron gives Michael a sour look, and all Mike does is wink at him.

_What's his problem?_

_Oh. He's pissed because of what we did to Zachariah. _

_Yeah? Maybe we should gank his constipated ass too,_ Dean growls. There was some talk that Sam should have been eliminated because he was Lucifer's vessel, and if memory serves, Metatron was behind _that_, too.

_Down, big fella. Maybe later. _

Dean looks for Castiel. He's over there in the crowd standing off to the side. Dean can tell Cas is driving instead of Jimmy because of the slightly wide-eyed, puzzled look on his face. Michael chuckles to himself. "Lord, I love the guy, but he's gotta loosen up."

The only bad part about this is Sam's not here. He's at Bobby's place. Having Sam see all this would be bad enough, but Dean's _really_ glad Bobby's not here. Dean would never hear the end of this. There would be no end to jokes about being "Touched By An Angel" on the "Highway to Heaven."

The photographer on the shoot is a tall, skinny drink of water dressed in black from head to toe. Dean swears he looks like Ben Affleck with black eyeliner.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Bartleby."

Dean and Michael nod politely.

"Okay, Michael, sweetheart…"

Michael scowls at him.

"Michael _and_ Dean, sorry, darling, it's my first time working with an archangel and his vessel. Forgive me?"

"I guess," Dean growls.

"We even got the music that you wanted."

Dean rolls his eyes. It's been his experience that angels wouldn't know good music if it slithered up and bit them on the ass. Who knew that saying "Yes" to an archangel would involve being Heaven's number one spokesdude?

"All righty then. I just want you two to act natural." Bartleby picks up his camera. "Pretend no one's here, okay?"

Famous last words.

The music starts, and it's _Flower_ by Moby. _Gone in 60 Seconds._ Good movie. Dean liked Nic Cage, loved Eleanor, the 1967 Shelby Mustang. "It was just a one-time thing, baby," Dean told the Impala after he saw the movie. "You're my number one girl. Always will be."

The Impala broke down that same day, and as he worked on her Dean wondered if she was trying to tell him something. He figured she _was_. He got the message loud and clear.

Anyway.

The music comes pouring out from everywhere. There are no speakers, at least none that Dean can see. It's a damn good sound system. Dean loses himself in the beat. Pretty soon he can't tell where he leaves off and where Michael begins.

_Bring Sally up, I bring Sally down,  
Let's done start, gotta till the ground._

Dean does Blue Steel.

Mike slowly undoes the buttons of his suit jacket.

They make love to the camera. Michael smirks as he removes his suit jacket, carelessly throws it over his shoulder.

_Oh, Lord, he's melting my lens,_ Bartleby thinks to himself.

_Bring Sally up, I bring Sally down,  
Let's done start, gotta till the ground._

The smirk gets wider, pure Dean, and when Michael (or Dean) flashes that infamous, wicked bright smile of his, ol' Bartleby is practically howling as he circles them with his camera, clicking away.

The shirt underneath the suit is tight, and just as black as the rest of the suit.

_Bring Sally up, I bring Sally down,  
Let's done start, gotta till the ground._

Dean throws the jacket to a stagehand standing off camera, and Michael unbuttons the shirt.

_Slowly._

Several of the seraphim off camera actually moan. Loud and long.

Dean rolls his hips. Fourteen seraphim and ten cherubim hit the floor with an undignified thud.

Anna fans herself. She actually blushes, furious and red, when Dean looks over at her and winks.

Dean tilts his head to one side and Michael stares directly into the camera as he pulls the shirt open. He's got one hell of a six pack, and Bartleby thinks about licking those freckles splashed across that well developed chest, imagines licking his way up that long taut neck, but he knows Michael and Dean don't swing that way.

By the time Dean pulls the shirt out of his waistband, and peels it off his body with excruciating slowness, twenty cherubim and thirty one seraphim pass out.

Castiel tugs at his necktie. It's getting hot in here all of a sudden.

* * *

_**Uh, Stand Back!  
Stand Back!  
**_  
_Peter Gabriel? Dude…Peter friggin' Gabriel?_ Dean sounds horrified.

_Hey, who's driving?_

_What?_

_It's your rule…driver picks the music…_

_All right, all right, shotgun shuts his cakehole._

_Yahtzee._

_

* * *

__**What are those dogs doing sniffing at my feet  
They're on to something, picking up  
Picking up this heat, this heat**_

Okay, so maybe having those hellhounds in the same scene with Dean and Michael _wasn't_ such a hot idea. The production was halted while deceased members of the Amalgamated Janitorial Services Union, Local 618 vacuumed up the ashes.

* * *

"All right, gents," Bartleby announces, "I've seen the proofs, and they are gold. Pure gold. I think we'll have a double centerfold for this issue."

Twenty minutes later he's yelling and screaming and purring at Michael and Dean:

"Oh, that's it, baby, come on now, unfurl 'em, unfurl those wings of yours, that's _it_, size does matter. Yeah! Lemme see it all, I want it now, give it to me…"

Michael does: twenty feet of blazing white and gold celestial wing blades layered with ice blue lightning bolts.

_**You know your stripper from your paint  
You know your sinner from your saint  
Whenever heaven's doors are shut  
You kick them open but  
I know you**_

Michael does the big reveal, and the set background changes color, subtly reflects the colors of the wings, highlights the blackness of the suit, and the green in Dean's eyes.

Raphael storms out in a jealous rage.

_What the hell's his problem?_ Dean growls as the song winds down.

Michael huffs. _Wing envy._

-30-

Thanks for reading!


End file.
